“I wish you’d show a little more enthusiasm Marcie. You’re playing the Saint-Saens fourth at Tanglewood in two weeks. Why don’t you practice a little?”

“I know it Ma. I know it backwards and forwards. I know it better than the conductor knows it.”

“It’s not good to take that attitude into the concert hall, Marcie.”

Marcie stood up stiffly and stretched. She walked to the window and looked out at the dogwood flowering on the front lawn. “It’s no good Ma. It would have been good ten years ago. I’m twenty-six years old now – I’m not a prodigy any more. There’s a half a dozen girls younger than me. Each of them is as good or better than me.”

“How about I make us a cup of tea?”

“Good idea Mom, tea’s the answer to everything.”

Marcie’s mother put her sewing down and walked to the kitchen. It felt good to be doing something. Yes, tea would be just the thing. Marcie would play the Saint-Saens again after a nice cup of tea. Her enthusiasm would be revived. She’d be rarin’ to go in two weeks – she’d give the performance of her young life. She could see the headlines materialize in the steam from the spout on the teapot … “Local girl creates sensation at Tanglewood! Maestro Goldsmith praises “performance of the season!”

She wondered a little if maybe she was driving Marcie a little too hard lately, but she quickly put it out of her mind. In the end Marcie would thank her for it. “Ma, if it hadn’t been for you I’d have given up long ago … you were the reason I won … you.”

She walked back into the living room with the tea and the cookies she had made last night. Marcie was sitll standing at the window looking out at the front lawn.

Makes me wonder if this is really Marcie's choice, or if her mother is living through her. Wonderful slice of life piece, Harry. It made me a little sad, somehow. I hope Marcie does well and that both she and her mother find the lives they want to leave. Well done, as always.

God bless,
Marlicia
with God all things are possible_________________Be patient with me. Like any good story, I'm a work in progress.

“Loneliness is an endless void that swallows you whole.” Kara’s words echoed in the room. She sighed and slid along the wall until she sat with her back against it. ”And once it’s got you trapped, it ensnares you forever.”

“Only if you let it,” Chrissie would say. “You don’t have to swim in it you know. You can pull yourself out of it. It’s your choice.”

The light spring breeze filtered through the screen and rustled the curtains. Kara drew her knees to her chest and put her coffee cup on the floor beside her. Her sister was an eternal optimist, always seeing the cup as half full, but Kara knew better. There was no light at the end of the tunnel, no silver lining in the storm clouds, no dawn to break after the night. There was only sadness and pain and the unending loneliness.

A bird settled on the windowsill and chirped outside her window. Kara lit a cigarette and put it to her lips. She inhaled deeply. These things would kill her eventually, but what did it matter? Then maybe the pain would stop. She exhaled and gazed at the room through a veil of smoke. Not completely empty…some of Chrissie’s furniture, covered in protective cloths and sheets, still remained, sold with the house.

That wasn’t right. None of this was right.

Kara scowled and took another drag on her cigarette. If Chrissie caught her, she’d get a tongue lashing. Chrissie hated it when she smoked, but sometimes it was the only thing that calmed her nerves. “I don’t even enjoy it much anymore,” Kara murmured. “So why do I do it?”

She flicked the ashes onto the floor beside her cup. “Should have brought an ashtray…” Chrissie hates it when I get ashes on the floor. Says it’s nasty, and the smoke stains the walls.” Kara sipped her coffee. “Well it doesn’t matter anymore, does it? You’re not here. I am, and I don’t care.” She pushed to her feet and glared across the room. “I don’t care, do you hear? What do you think of that?”

Kara blinked back tears and strode to the sheet-covered baby grand piano that took up the far corner of the nearly empty room. “It isn’t fair,” she murmured. “You lied to me. You told me I could pull myself out of my loneliness, but you were wrong. I could do it as long as you were here, but now you’re gone. I can’t do it alone.”

“And you won’t have to, Chrissie.”

Kara blinked. “Who are you?”

“It’s Dr. Waller, Chrissie, remember? We came here to work through a few things.”

Dr. Waller, crossed the threshold from the other room and put a hand on her shoulder. “You know that’s not true, Chrissie. Kara is your sister and she died in this room. You saw it happen and we need to know what you know.”

_________________Be patient with me. Like any good story, I'm a work in progress.

It’s not so easy to establish identity in fiction as short as this. Chrissie starts off as Kara thinking about Chrissie but she’s really Chrissie talking about Kara, right. Was Kara the pianist? Why does the doctor use the collective pronoun “we?” Fascinating little stormy Marlicia, as it leaves all questions unanswered._________________We are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master.
Ernest Hemingway

I'm sorry I'm so late with my response, Harry. This time of year is really busy for me with my daughter's SSI paperwork. I'll be a little inconsistent until the middle of October.

I did find it difficult to portray this type of character in such a short space. You got everything right, however. I'm impressed, LOL. Yes, Kara was the pianist, maybe even an important one. Chrissie may dabble, but nothing like her sister. The we used by the psychiatrist indicates there might be some criminal type questions surrounding the death, maybe even that Chrissie might be responsible somehow. Thank you for your kind words, my friend. As always, they are much appreciated.

God bless,
Marlicia
with God all things are possible_________________Be patient with me. Like any good story, I'm a work in progress.